


Feeling…

by zvi



Category: Being Human
Genre: Character of Color, Masturbation, Other, Pre-Canon, challenge: sex is not the enemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-25
Updated: 2010-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:40:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zvi/pseuds/zvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst part of death was the lack of sensation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeling…

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:  
>   
> [Sex is not the enemy challenge 2010](http://villainny.livejournal.com/1420948.html)

The worst part of death was the lack of sensation. Which, duh, the dead can't move things, they're not on this plane of existence, no one could see or hear her, but….

She wandered the house in the clothes she'd died in: a grey sweater she'd meant to cut up for rags and other, similarly grey and ancient clothing. You'd think, if you were going to succumb to such a low fate as tripping on the stairs, that it could at least have been while wearing high heels and a gorgeous evening gown, been something to look at.

She could still see the world around her, her arms, her horrible clothes; that much was a relief. She'd clearly read The Order of the Phoenix at an impressionable age, she'd had nightmares that wandering around dead meant wearing a blindfold.

She couldn't smell or taste. She'd tried today. Owen had come on inspection after the cleaning people had finished up, and she'd wanted, quite badly, to smell his cologne again. She'd followed him up and down the stairs, in and out of rooms, and sniffed her hardest. Nothing, not the slightest hint of the old leather stink from his Lynx body spray. She'd licked at his ear, at the back of his neck, and she hadn't tasted him, hadn't felt his skin under her tongue.

Once everyone had cleared out she had a good cry. Turned out she could cry a really long time without getting a headache now. Not exactly worth dying young for, but at least death had a single benefit. She rubbed her hands across her eyes, on her cheeks to dry her face, and then she stopped and did it again.

She could feel her own body, feel her own clothes. It was brilliant! She ran her hands over her face, her neck, dragged her fingers through her hair. The resistance of the waves, the pull of it was overwhelming. She'd felt so untouched for so long. This discovery of herself was an antidote to that.

She ran her hands down her sleeve, felt that tiny hole in the elbow of the left sleeve catch her fingernail. It hurt just the littlest bit, and she sat, on the floor, without really meaning to, without properly falling down. She'd just flashed there, too disturbed to stay standing. That was new as well. She put it away for later.

_Now _she was touching her own fingers: long, brown, delicate. She'd not given them much thought except as a place for Owen's ring one day, but now, they were amazing, magnificent. She could feel the bones if she pressed firmly, map the lines in her palm with a featherlight touch. (She stopped that, hands _tingling_ and crazy-feeling until she shook the sensation off.) She put her thumb in her mouth. She wondered if it was still possible to ruin your teeth, once you were dead. Her horrible cousin Ida had sucked her thumb until she was in university, and her two front teeth were practically perpendicular to her mouth.

She forgot that, in the luxury of warm, wet fingers. She felt the slick hardness of the backs of her teeth, which she'd never felt with her fingers before, failed to appreciate with her tongue. She pulled her fingers out of her mouth and blew on them (how was she _breathing_?) and delighted in the cold. She hadn't felt cold or warmth herself since her death, and this temperature difference, subtle though it was, delighted her. It made her fingers tingle again.

Made her nipples draw up _tight_. Fuck. She and Owen hadn't made love for…a while. (He'd fucked her, like it or not, but that wasn't quite the same. She'd sprained her wrist, that time he'd found her with her hands in her pants and yanked her out of bed.) And Owen hadn't been able to find her button every time when things had been ~~less bad~~ good between them.

One hand found its way back under her ratty shirt, to circle her own bellybutton. Lightly, lightly, coaxing that same tingling feeling from her hands into her stomach, to her fanny. She reached further down and found that she was dry still, but her skin felt warm to her fingers, soft and furry and welcoming. Rounded, swollen, hot, god. She could feel the wrinkles, the stretchiness of her, damn, what was it called, her _labia majora_. She said it aloud, rolled the "_aaaah"_ sound around in her mouth.

Suddenly her clothes were too hot, too tight, she had to get naked right fucking now, threw off her shirts and her jeans, bra and underwear and socks all of it, squirmed and wriggled until the clothes were next to her and her bare ass was on the carpet (she thought this was the room with the cheap, scratchy carpet you didn't want to walk barefoot on, but she felt nothing beneath her now.) But now she could touch her own breasts, feel the smooth, delicate skin of her undersides, feel the weight of them in her hands as she sat up and leaned forward.

She reached between her legs again, put her hands to her thighs. She quivered underneath her own hands, muscles tensing and loosening under the crawl of her fingertips, the drag of her fingernails, the weight of her palms. She stuck a couple of fingers back into her mouth, then circled the wet finger between her belly button and her mons; the cool, wet sensation made her gasp at the feeling of it, made her tear up a little, so grateful to be _here_.

The sound of her own voice made her nervous, made her feel…discoverable. So she quit fucking around, stuck two fingers in her cunt with the base of her hand on her clit and rocked forward. She was so hot, so hungry for the pressure and the stretch of it. Her hand was sticky with her own juices, wetness slipping up from her fingers along the back of her hand, nearly to her wrist. There was so much wet there, so much heat, she could smell herself. It was amazing, amazing that she smelled anything at all, amazing that the scent, both sweet and musky, was so unfamiliar to her.

She switched hands then, left thumb right on top of her clit, working it hard, and put the wet hand in her mouth, because she wanted to taste, needed to taste, to have something rich and real on her tongue. It was strange, not sweet, not bitter, a sort of, of, of…. She came, with the taste of herself on her tongue and the feel of her fingers in her cunt. Her orgasm lasted a long time, waves of feeling that just kept coming, then smaller ripples, then teeny wavelets.

It was the best she'd felt in her body, the most sensation she could remember passing through her, for ages. She lay there for a while, just enjoying it, just feeling good.

But eventually, she got up, wanted to get dressed. And it was silly, it was completely silly of her, but she'd never been able to change clothes in a room with the door open. So she pushed at the doorknob.

The door moved.


End file.
